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WILD LIFE IN WESTERN PENNSYLVANIA 








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WILD LIFE IN WESTERN 
PENNSYLVANIA 

By many a cairn and trenched mound. 
Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound, 
And springs, where grey-haired shepherds tell. 
That still the fairies love to dwell. 

—Sir Walter Scott 

By henry W. shoemaker 




PUBLISHED BY 
COMPOSITE PRINTING COMPANY. NEW YORK. 1903 



CONGk 


RV OF 
bSS, 


T -vo Copies 


Received 


FEB 


17 1903 


Copyugni 

CLASS 0^ 

COPY 


tntty 
XXc. No. 
B. 



Copyright 

Henry W. Shoemaker 

J90S 



INTRODUCTION 

THE purpose in presenting this little volume of 
traditions and observations of life in the wilds 
of Pennsylvania is, if possible, to awaken an interest 
among the residents of the state in the folklore and 
legends in which this section of country abounds, 
and perhaps be the means of inspiring one better 
qualified than I am to adequately set forth these 
interesting tales in readable form. 

How much less picturesque the Hudson Valley 
would be were it not for the romantic charm given 
it by the writings of Washington Irving, or how 
prosaic the New England States become without the 
marvelous tales of Hawthorne. It is with such 
thoughts I have prepared this book, hoping that the 
seed thus planted may reap fruit from other hands. 

As a goodly percentage of the characters outlined 
in these Pennsylvania stories are still living, or 
have near relatives who might take offense at the 
publicity accorded them, I have transposed several 



vi. INTRODUCTION 

of the names of persons and places. Otherwise, I 
believe I have followed the traditions as I have 
heard them from the old settlers. 

The first story in the book, "The Legend of 
Penn's Cave," was told me when I was twelve years 
old, in 1892, by an aged Seneca Indian named Isaac 
Steele, who visited McElhattan that year while I 
was summering there. I well remember him ; above 
medium height, squarely built, with strong aquiline 
features and long white hair hanging down to his 
broad shoulders. He said that he was eighty-three 
years old and that he had once roamed over the 
wilds of Clinton County. He had come back to the 
scenes of his childhood for a final look and when I 
made his acquaintance he was on his way to New 
York State via the ''Pipe Line." The various 
Indian names are purely fictitious, as I transcribed 
the story from memory for the first time a few days 
^S^' I S^ ii^to these particulars to show the way I 
have acquired this collection of motley facts and 
fables and only hope that they will give the reader 
a small percentage of the pleasure they have given 



INTRODUCTION vii. 

me during the rambles in which I learned most of 
them. 

I wish to sincerely thank the mountaineers and 
others who, often at much loss of time to themselves, 
have recounted to me the tales of days gone by and 
thus enabled me to make this book a reality. 

Henry W. Shoemaker. 
New York, January 8, 1903. 



THE LEGEND OF PENN'S CAVE 

IN the days when the West Branch Valley was a 
trackless wilderness of defiant pines and submis- 
sive hemlocks, twenty-five years before the first pio- 
neer had attempted a permanent lodgement beyond 
Sunbury, a young Pennsylvania Frenchman from 
Lancaster County, named Malachi Boyer, alone and 
unaided, pierced the jungle to the point where Belle- 
fonte is now located. The history of his travels has 
never been written, partly because he had no white 
companion to observe them, and partly because he 
himself was unable to write. His very identity would 
now be forgotten were it not for traditions of the 
Indians, with whose lives he became strangely 
entangled. 

A short, stockily built fellow was Malachi Boyer, 
with unusually prominent black eyes, and black hair 
that hung in ribbon-like strands over his broad, low 
forehead. Fearless, yet conciliatory, he escaped a 
thousand times from Indian cunning and treachery. 



10 THE LEGEND OF PENN'S CAVE 

and as the months went by and he penetrated further 
into the forests he numbered many redskins among 
his cherished friends. 

Why he explored these boundless wilds he could 
not explain, for it was not in the interest of science, 
as he scarcely knew of such a thing as geography, 
and it was not for trading, as he lived by the way. 
But on he forced his path, ever aloof from his own 
race, on the alert for the strange scenes which en- 
compassed him day by day. 

One beautiful Springtime, there is no one who 
can tell the exact year, found Malachi Boyer camped 
on the shores of Spring Creek. Near the Mam- 
moth Spring was an Indian camp whose occupants 
maintained a quasi-intercourse with the pale-faced 
stranger. Sometimes old Chief O-ko-cho would 
bring gifts of corn to Malachi, who in turn presented 
the chieftain with a hunting knife of truest steel. 
And in this way Malachi came to spend more and 
more of his time about the Indian camps, only keeping 
his distance at night and during religious ceremonies. 

Old O-ko-cho's chief pride was centered in his 



THE LEGEND OF PENN'S CAVE 11 

seven stalwart sons, Hum-kin, Ho-ko-lin, Too-chin, 
Os-tin,Chaw-kee-bin, A-ha-kin, Ko-lo-pa-kin, and his 
Diana-like daughter, Nita-nee. The seven brothers 
resolved themselves into a guard of honor for their 
sister, who had many suitors, among whom was the 
young chief, E-Faw, from the adjoining sub-tribe of 
the A-caw-ko-taws. But Nita-nee gently though 
firmly repulsed her numerous suitors, until such 
time as her father should give her in marriage to one 
worthy of her regal blood. 

Thus ran the course of Indian life when Malachi 
Boyer made his bed of hemlock boughs by the gur- 
gling waters of Spring Creek. And it was the first 
sight of her, washing a deer skin in the stream, that 
led him to prolong his stay and ingratiate himself 
with her father's tribe. 

Few were the words which passed between Ma- 
lachi and Nita-nee, many the glances, and often did 
the handsome pair meet in the mossy ravines near 
the camp grounds. But this was all clandestine love, 
for friendly as Indian and white might be in social 
intercourse, never could a marriage be tolerated. 



12 THE LEGEND OF PENN'S CAVE 

until — there always is a turning point in romance — 
the black -haired wanderer and the beautiful Nita-nee 
resolved to spend their lives together, and one moon- 
less night started for the more habitable east. All 
night long they threaded their siient way, climbing 
the mountain ridges, gliding through the velvet 
soiled hemlock glades, and wading, hand in hand, the 
splashing, resolute torrents. When morning came 
they breakfasted on dried meat and huckleberries, 
and bathed their faces in a mineral spring. Until — 
there always is a turning point in romance — seven 
tall, stealthy forms, like animated mountain pines, 
stepped from the gloom and surrounded the eloping 
couple. Malachi drew a hunting knife, identical 
with the one he had given to Chief O-ko-cho, and 
seizing Nita-nee around the waist, stabbed right and 
left at his would-be captors. The first stroke pierced 
Hum-kin's heart, and uncomplaining he sank down 
dying. The six remaining brothers, although all re- 
ceived stab wounds, caught Malachi in their com- 
bined grasp and disarmed him; then one brother 
held sobbing Nita-nee, while the others dragged the 



THE LEGEND OF PENN'S CAVE 13 

fighting Malachi across the mountain. That was the 
last the lovers saw of one another. Below the moun- 
tain lay a broad valley, from the center of which rose 
a circular hillock, and it was to this mound the sav- 
age brothers led their victim. As they approached, 
a yawning cavern met their eyes, filled with green- 
ish limestone water. There is a ledge at the mouth 
of the cave, about six feet higher than the water, 
above which the arched roof rises thirty feet, and it 
was from here they shoved Malachi Boyer into the 
tide below. He sank for a moment, but when he rose 
to the surface, commenced to swim. He approached 
the ledge but the brothers beat him back, so he 
turned and made for some dry land in the rear of the 
cavern. Two brothers ran from the entrance over 
the ridge to where there is another small opening, 
but though Malachi tried his best, in the impene- 
trable darkness he could not find this or any other 
avenue of escape. He swam back to the cave's 
mouth, but the merciless Indians were still on guard. 
He climbed up again and again, but was repulsed, 
and once more retired to the dry cave. Every day 



14 THE LEGEND OF PENN'S CAVE 

for a week he renewed his efforts of escape, but the 
brothers were never absent. Hunger became un- 
bearable, his strength gave way but he vowed he 
would not let the redskins see him die, so forcing 
himself into one of the furthermost labyrinths, 
Malachi Boyer breathed his last. 

Two days afterward the brothers entered the 
cave and discovered his body. They touched not the 
coins in his pockets, but weighted him with stones 
and dropped him into the deepest part of the green- 
ish limestone water. And after these years those 
who have heard this legend declare that on the still 
Summer nights an unaccountable echo rings through 
the cave which sounds like *'Nita-nee, Nita-nee!" 



OLE BULL'S CASTLE 

I LEFT the railroad at the lively little city of 
Cross Forks, and followed the mountainous 
valley of Kettle Creek towards the former home of 
the world-famous violinist, Ole Bull. Here and 
there neatly fenced farms were sprinkled among the 
rugged peaks, but as the valley became narrower, 
and the mountains higher, the scene became one of 
desolation rather than cultivation. 

Very little of the hemlock forests remained, 
the mills and railroads of Cross Forks having done 
their share towards desolating the valley. At last, 
as I came around a bend in the stream, and likewise 
in the road, I saw before me, on the summit of one 
of the highest peaks, the jagged ruins of what 
appeared to be a mediaeval castle. The bright 
August sun glistened on the gray stone walls and 
parapets, and above all, under the canopy of the 
cloudless sky, soared an eagle in his solemn gran- 
deur. Never, I thought, had the harmonies of 



16 OLE BULL'S CASTLE 

nature united themselves better than on the site of 
Ole Bull's Castle. But there was one element which 
by some might be thought discordant ; on the steep 
sides of the mountain on which the castle stands 
worked half a hundred woodsmen, their blue and 
red shirts in bold relief to the dark green of the 
hemlock forest they were destroying. The click, 
click of the axes, the wheezing of the crosscut saws, 
and the rattle of the cant hooks producing a strange 
contrast to the otherwise oppressive stillness of the 
scene. Returning to the mediaeval simile, one 
could almost imagine these gaily bedecked woods- 
men as the home guard of the lord of the manor, 
throwing up fortifications on the mountain side to 
repulse the assault of some hostile force. 

The part of the mountain which they had 
already denuded stood thick with hemlock stumps, 
peeled clean of thick bark, and shining pink -white in 
the sunlight like rows upon rows of tombstones in 
the graveyard of the ages. And the freshly peeled 
glistening logs, piled one on another, in seeming 
regular order, reminded me of the coat of mail on 



OLE BULL'S CASTLE 17 

the capacious breast of some mighty warrior of the 
Middle Ages ! 

I climbed the steep mountain, pausing every 
few minutes to enjoy the fresh panorama which 
opened before me, and when I reached the castle 
grounds, the view stretched in boundless immensity 
in every direction ; range after range of dark green, 
light green, blue and brown mountains could be seen 
to the north, the south, the east, and the west. Thin 
white columns of smoke, which rose from distant 
ravines, betokened the presence of steam saw mills. 

I could not but admire the taste of Ole Bull in 
selecting this sublime spot for a mountain home, far 
from the turmoils of the valley, like the philosopher 
in Sartor Resartus. 

Of the castle itself but three walls remain, the 
tallest being nearest the precipitous cliff, and from 
whose windows the occupants could have looked 
down a sheer descent of five hundred feet to where 
Kettle Creek winds about like a thread of silver 
fresh from the smelter. Across the ravine is 
another mountain, as steep, but not as high as the 



18 OLE BULL'S CASTLE 

one on which the castle is located, which rises 
majestically up with its uneven cliffs and graveyard 
of hemlock stumps. The ravine is strangely rem- 
iniscent of the pictures of the Colorado Canyon we 
have seen in our geographies, and later on railroad 
posters, but from what I know of the west, the 
ravine of Kettle Creek, at least in Ole Bull's time, 
was far more beautiful, for what it lacked in depth, 
was more than recompensed by the dense foliage 
which grew in a tangle on the rugged sides, a 
glorious gift of nature which no western landscape 
can boast. 



THE BALD EAGLE SILVER MINE 

THE legend of a silver mine of fabulous richness 
hidden somewhere in the Bald Eagle Moun- 
tains between Pine and Anghaubaugh Stations has 
had for over fifty years a remarkable fascination for 
the ne'er-do-wells, soldiers of fortune and "divin- 
ing rod" men of this section of country. 

Up to thirty years ago, small bands of Indians, 
claiming to hail from the New York State Reserva- 
tions, were in the habit of camping every Fall at the 
confluence of Pine Creek and the Susquehanna 
River, not far from the town of Jersey Shore. 
Ostensibly there for the selling of beautifully woven 
baskets and trinkets, the more suspicious of their 
white neighbors ascribed to them an entirely differ- 
ent purpose, for on dark nights these Indians would 
hurriedly cross the river in canoes, with lanterns 
muffled in blankets, and climb up the mountain 
which rises precipitously from the opposite bank. 
By the lights they could be followed to the sum- 



20 THE BALD EAGLE SILVER MINE 

mit, where they kept moving about until daybreak. 
On several occasions the redskins were shadowed 
by local busybodies, but were always discovered by 
the Indians' outposts. Lights would be instantly ex- 
tinguished, and the Indians would disappear in the 
darkness, leaving their eavesdroppers more mystified 
than ever. The whites still held to their belief that 
it was treasure the Indians were after, as farmers 
in the upper Pine Creek valley, who had met the 
savages on their homeward trips to the Reserva- 
tions, declared that they carried bags of pure silver, 
which they showed to whites, whom at rare intervals 
they took into their confidence, but persistently 
refused to tell the location of the mines. 

One or two Pennsylvanians, who had lumbered 
near the Cattaraugus Reservation in western New 
York, met traders from Buffalo, who said they had 
bought silver from certain Indians who were recog- 
nized as having been in the vicinity of the Bald 
Eagles. 

In Lock Haven until recently lived a gentleman 
of wide culture, who became interested in the 



THE BALD EAGLE SILVER MINE 31 

fabled silver mine shortly after the Indians had 
ceased their yearly pilgrimages. His geological 
knowledge told him that it was possible for pockets 
of silver to be present on these highlands, so in a 
spirit of adventure he paid a visit to the Cattaraugus 
Reservation. After diligent inquiries he learned 
that of all the Indians who had been to Pennsyl- 
vania, but one, an aged squaw, remained. How- 
ever, she was too feeble to make another journey. 
By liberal gifts of money, and promises of further 
rewards, he finally induced this old woman to draw a 
diagram of the location of the mines, which she 
described as a cavern which led a hundred feet into 
the body of the mountain, where progress was 
barred by walls of the purest silver. 

Armed with this map, the Lock Haven would- 
be Monte Christo hurried back to the Bald Eagles 
as fast as the Seashore Express could carry him. 
Out on the mountain he went, expecting to find the 
mine in less than a day's search. But disappoint- 
ment awaited him, though he found the landmarks, 
a dead yellow pine, and a pile of stones thrown up 



22 THE BALD EAGLE SILVER MINE 

in pyramid shape. Then he hired two countrymen 
to aid him, with no better success. 

After a month's fruitless search he engaged an 
engineer and a surveyor from Williamsport, but 
they too failed utterly. Goaded to a point of 

"do or die" he again visited the Reservation, but in 
the meantime the old squaw had died, on her 
deathbed leaving the secret to her half-breed grand- 
son, Billy Douty. The half-breed was positive he 
could find the treasure-trove if some one would pay 
his expenses to Pine, which proposition was gladly 
accepted by the gentleman from Lock Haven. Billy 
landed in Pine Station at six o'clock one evening, 
refused any supper, and made straight for the lower 
mountain. "Me find before morning, me dead 
sure," he called back as he cut across lots. 

Next morning he was back empty-handed and 
hungry, but not discouraged. He loaded himself 
with a stock of provisions and went out to the 
mountain, remaining night and day in all kinds of 
weather for three weeks. Occasionally in the still - 
cess of midnight the ring of his pick could be heard 



THE BALD EAGLE SILVER MINE 23 

far away on the lonely summits. At last his 
patience gave way, and he abandoned the quest, 
saying, "River run wrong, Allegheny River run 
west, Susquehanna run east, me twisted." And to 
this day the silver mine of the Bald Eagles awaits a 
rediscoverer. 



GRANNY MYERS' CURSE 

' I "HAT belief in witchcraft still exists in the United 
* States cannot be denied, as the newspapers 
every now and then print accounts of the doings of 
alleged witches in remote parts of the country. But 
nowhere does it flourish and its teachings defy the 
advance of modern enlightenment to such an extent 
as in the mountains of western Pennsylvania. 

A typical case of Pennsylvania witchcraft is that 
of an old Swiss, Christ by name, who tills a sixty- 
acre farm on a bleak mountain top along what is 
known as the "Pine Road," that runs from Jersey 
Shore to Loganton. His house stands back a hun- 
dred yards from the road. The original structure 
was built of logs, but as more prosperous days en- 
sued, a frame mansion was "tacked" on the less 
imposing log cabin. 

Not another house can be seen from the win- 
dows, which look over a dreary expanse of fire-swept 
summits, "slashings" and abandoned clearings. The 



GRANNY MYERS' CURSE 25 

gable of the large bam, standing between the road 
and the house, is covered with bear paws, nailed in 
disorderly profusion. Several sets of buckhoms 
adorn the slanting roof of the nearby corncrib. 

With such surroundings it is not surprising that 
people become prey to mental vagaries, and live in 
terror of persons possessing supposed supernatural 
powers. 

Formerly Christ had his brother Michael, whose 
house was two miles up a secluded hemlock hollow, 
for "next door" neighbor, but alleged spirit rappings 
and apparitions, culminating in the suicide of an old 
man named Righter, who made his home with the 
family, caused Mike to move to a farm nearer town 
and neighbors. 

At present, Christ's nearest neighbors are the 
family of an old woman whom we shall call Granny 
Myers, reputed among the mountaineers as a witch, 
and famed for the potency of her spells, who lives in 
a windowless shanty, three miles away. 

One Fall, about ten years ago, some of Christ's 
cattle broke into the Myers buckwheat field, and one 



26 GRANNY MYERS' CURSE 

was mysteriously shot. Threats of criminal prose- 
cution were made, until one night Granny Myers 
strode into Christ's kitchen, and, in the presence of 
several witnesses, cursed the farmer, his wife and 
daughter in these words : ' 'Christ, you shall shrivel 
to death with rheumatics, your woman shall develop 
a cancer, and your daughter shall cough up blood 
till she fades away." Then she went out, slamming 
the door after her, leaving the Christs in a state of 
nervous collapse. 

Several months passed by ; it was the month of 
February, the Pine Road was deep in snow and not 
even a shingle-sled could navigate, but a little thing 
like this could not daunt old John Dice, the witch 
doctor from the river bottom, who, clad in his famil- 
iar coat of Confederate gray, knee deep in slush, was 
bound for a vendue in the east end of Sugar Valley. 

As he passed the Christ farm, a withered fig- 
ure hobbled to the fence, and waved his hand at 
him. "Shon, come here," he called. "My woman 
is dying mit der cancer, my girl is coughing up 
blood and I'm dying mit der rheumatiz." 



GRANNY MYERS' CURSE 27 

The witch doctor climbed the gate and followed 
the farmer to his house. Mrs. Christ, complain- 
ing of terrible pains in her side, lay moaning on a 
sofa, and the nineteen-year-old daughter, worn al- 
most to a skeleton, dragged herself about the house, 
coughing every few minutes. 

"Granny Myers done it," was all they would say. 
The witch doctor, who understood the trouble at a 
glance, promised to have the spell removed within 
the week, and before an hour was at the hut of the 
alleged witch. 

On his way, in a snow covered lot, he noticed 
four miserable horses huddled together, protecting 
themselves as best they could from the cruel Winter 
wind. All told they had but two eyes and one good 
tail among them, these cast-offs from the dispersal 
sale of the Williamsport Traction Company — now 
operated by trolley. 

Granny Myers, a tall, rawboned woman with a 
long nose and enormous hands, was smoking her clay 
pipe by the stove, when her old enemy, who never 
knocked, came in, shaking the snow from his boots. 



28 GRANNY MYERS' CURSE 

"Go over to Christ's and tell them you have 
taken that spell off, or, mark my word, it's now Fri- 
day, by next Monday your four horses will be dead, 
and you will follow them." 

That was all John Dice said before he resumed 
his tramp to the vendue. The next Monday, true 
to his promise, he appeared at Granny Myers* door, 
a scythe and a poleaxe, purchased at the vendue, 
slung over his massive shoulders. Granny heard his 
footsteps and was on hand to meet him. 

"You old deil," said she, "meh crowbates are 
all four dead, and I wus to Christ's a' yesterday." 

When the witch doctor revisited the Christ 
kitchen a vastly different scene met his eyes. Christ, 
humming to himself, was mending a rocking-chair ; 
his smiling wife was lifting a heavy kettle from the 
stove, while his buxom daughter was setting the tea 
table. 

"Vont you stay to supper Shon," said Christ, 
"the old hex's taken off the spell, an' we're ahl 
well again." 



WITCHCRAFT vs. MOTHER-IN-LAW 

GRANNY MYERS had a daughter who was 
"mahried" to Jakey Welshans, a small store- 
keeper in the German Settlement. The old woman 
would tie up her bundle and wend her way over the 
hills and make protracted visits to her daughter, 
often lasting a year at a time, much to the disgust of 
Jakey. On one of these visits, when she had created 
turmoil among the Welshans' for eleven months and 
showed no signs of going home, Jakey hit upon the 
scheme of enlisting the aid of John Dice in ridding 
his household of the disturbing mother-in-law. So 
one day he met John, who was electioneering for 
a Republican candidate (John is a Democrat), and 
told him of his unhappy predicament. "Der old 
voman is awful scaret of you, Shon, ever sence you 
kilt them horses on her, and, if you tell her somethin' 
bad may come to her, she'll light oud preddy quick. " 
'* All right," said John, "let's tend to her case 
now." 



30 WITCHCRAFT vs. MOTHER-IN-LAW 

*'Der old voman is a great lisdener, Shon," con- 
tinued Jakey, "and if you talks kinder loud on der 
porch, she'll be peekin' through der keyhole. " Arriv- 
ing at the Welshans' store they walked around to 
the side porch, ostensibly to give John a drink from 
the w^ell. A hasty glance through the kitchen win- 
dow showed Granny Myers standing inside the closed 
kitchen door. 

"I'm down on that infernal mother-in-law of 
yours," said John in his loudest tones, "and she'd 
better be going home soon or -" 

"Oh, don't speak like dot, Shon, she's a loafly 
woman," interposed son-in-law Jakey. 

"I mean what I say," said John, "I have no use 
for that old hex, and she'd better clear out, for if she 
doesn't, within twenty-four hours her blood will dry 
in her veins and she'll die standing up. " Then John 
got his drink of well water and resumed his election- 
eering for the Republican candidate. But his words 
had their effect. At the dinner table that day Granny 
said she "thought it was time to go home. " All pre- 
vailed upon her to stay, even the children, but with no 



WITCHCRAFT vs. MOTHER-IN-LAW 31 

avail. At half -past four the next morning she came 
downstairs with her bundle and started on her ten- 
mile walk across the mountains. And to this day 
Granny Myers has never revisited the German 
Settlement. 



KILLING A PANTHER 

ACCORDING to most authorities the panther is 
an extinct animal in Pennsylvania. The 
State Report on the ''Diseases of Poultry, etc.," 
published in 1898, states that "the last one was 
killed by Seth Nelson, Jr. , on the main fork of Beech 
Creek in 1893." 

I have made a careful investigation of all the 
rumors favorable to the present existence of the 
panther in this state, as well as all authorities who 
claim its extinction. As a result I am inclined to 
believe that at the present time there are a few of 
these bloodthirsty animals ranging in Clearfield and 
Center Counties. And in this the commonwealth is 
unique, as the panther has long since vanished from 
the mountains of New York and the New England 
States. Likewise this state was the last eastern 
home of the elk, and from the most reliable sources 
I believe there are still a few wolves in the Keystone 
wildernesses. 

32 



KILLING A PANTHER 33 

A young man named Davis, from McElhattan, 
has favored me with an account of the killing of a 
large panther on Deer Creek, which occurred in the 
Autumn of 1895, fully two years after the "last one" 
was slain, according to state report. 

Mr. Davis had been connected with a bark job 
in the Clearfield County mountains, and when the 
"peeling" season was over he started with three 
companions for Karthaus, to take the train for their 
respective homes. Among their assets were five 
fine hunting dogs. 

For half a dozen miles their progress was un- 
eventful, save when the dogs, for a little diversion, 
"holed" a groundhog or "tongued" a rabbit. In the 
pursuit of one of these "cottontails" the hounds 
got a long distance in front of their owners, so that 
their baying sounded as a faint echo. Suddenly, 
despite the interval of space, the yelping became 
unusually loud and continued, as if some large 
animal were being held at bay. The young men con- 
cluded it was only a black bear, which species 
abounded in this section, but nevertheless hurried 



34 KILLING A PANTHER 

towards their dogs. At last from the brow of a 
steep hill whose sides were denuded of all timber 
that might obstruct the view, they saw the dogs 
below in the hollow frantically leaping and howl- 
ing about an enormous white oak. Far out on a 
projecting limb, almost as thick as the trunk itself, 
crouched a huge, tawny animal, its long tail hang- 
ing from the limb, a bait to goad the hounds to 
greater fury. Sometimes in their frantic leaps the 
dogs would almost seize the tail in their teeth but 
it was just out of reach, and they gave vent to their 
disappointment in choruses of the most hideous 
howling. The panther never uttered a sound, but 
sat motionless, eyeing his tormenters. 

One of the young men, Waters by name, had an 
excellent rifle, and, followed by his companions, 
clambered down the brushy hillside. At proper 
distance the gunner halted, aimed and fired, the 
bullet taking effect. A piercing cry rang from the 
panther, as with convulsive efforts it slid from the 
oak branch, tearing off the bark in great strips as it 
fell. Right on the dogs it dropped, and in the fury 



KILLING A PANTHER 35 

of its wound, commenced the annihilation of the 
faithful canines. Blood flowed in every direction ; 
a brindle dog, with its entrails hanging out, was 
tossed fifteen feet in the air, falling lifeless in a 
little creek nearby. Waters fired again, but the 
quick movements of the panther saved it a mortal 
wound, the bullet passing through the eyes of one 
of the hounds. Another dog dragged itself bleed- 
ing from the fray, but the panther sprang upon 
it, crushing the life out, and as another dog endeav- 
ored to save its companion, the panther crushed 
that one to earth with its paw. Waters watched 
his chance, and as the panther sprang for the 
remaining dog, he ran up and struck the savage 
beast a terrific blow on the back of the head with 
the butt end of his rifle. The panther dropped to 
earth upon the struggling hound. As the young 
men rained blows on its head with clubs, Waters 
took careful aim, and sent a bullet crashing through 
the panther's skull, which ended its murderous 
career. The dog was dragged from under its foe, 
but died in a few minutes. 



OLD RIGHTER'S GHOST 

NEARLY seventeen years have passed since the 
mysterious death of this old German, but the 
eyewitnesses of the phenomena leading up to the 
event still live, and vividly recall the occurrence. 

Down in the Black Hollow, which lies between 
Sugar and Nippenose Valleys, stands a square frame 
house. It is now deserted, and time and neglect 
have reduced it to the most dilapidated condition. 
All the whitewash has gone, the windows have been 
removed, and but one chimney points menacingly to 
the solemn sky. A few peach trees in the kitchen 
garden still yield fruit, which brings the small boys 
of the adjacent clearings (but always in midday) to 
wander about the tenantless place. 

Some years ago, on one of my rambles among 
the wilds, I happened upon this ancient house. I 
noted its superiority to the farmhouses of the locality, 
and wondered why it stood deserted. The house 
seemed extremely habitable, the rooms being large, 



OLD RIGHTER'S GHOST 37 

with open fireplaces, and the barn, which had been 
burned, to judge from the dimensions of the founda- 
tions, was equal to anything in the river bottom. 
When I reached McElhattan I eagerly inquired and 
was told the history of the Michael farm. 

In 1886 considerable lumbering operations were 
being carried on by Lock Haven parties in the hol- 
low, and a crew of seven or eight men, who were 
skidding logs, building slides and shanties, were 
boarding that Winter at the farmhouse. In addition 
to these woodsmen and the family of the farmer, 
there was an aged German named Righter. Whether 
he was a relative of the family, a dependent, or 
merely a paid boarder, the woodsmen never learned. 
But for some reason he enjoyed unusual privileges, 
his peculiarities being encouraged, it was thought, 
by the tolerance in which they were held. This old 
German was said to have a haunted mind, and it was 
impossible for him to sleep at night, the very ap- 
proach of dusk sending him off into indescribable 
fits of terror and fear. Every evening six large 
kerosene lamps were placed in his bedroom, over the 



38 OLD RIGHTER'S GHOST 

''back kitchen," and all night long he would walk up 
and down the room, sometimes crying piteously. 
But at sunrise, he would throw open the shutters, 
extinguish the lamps, and lie down for a comfortable 
sleep which would last pretty nearly all day. He ap- 
parently came downstairs but for one meal, which 
was towards sundown, but the family left loaves of 
bread and crocks of milk in his room when he retired 
for his nocturnal struggles. Several woodsmen who 
slept below in the kitchen complained that his tramp- 
ing and wailing kept them awake, but the farmer 
gave them the alternative of enduring it or leaving. 
He said his family had "gotten used to it, and others 
could too." Who this old man was, where he came 
from, and what ailed him was an unceasingly inter- 
esting topic of conversation among the naturally 
curious woodsmen. They tried to engage him in 
conversation, but could not even learn his first name, 
"Righter's my name," was all he would say. 

When the first shadows would creep into the 
comers of the kitchen where this odd German spent 
his afternoons, he would jump up from his chair and 



OLD RIGHTER'S GHOST 39 

cry, ''light der lamps, light der lamps." The children, 
who were well trained, would run upstairs and illumi- 
nate this room and close the shutters, then, preceded 
by a boy carrying a lighted candle, he would climb 
up the narrow, rickety stairs, lock and bolt his door, 
and commence his nightly tramp, tramp. This kept 
up all Winter long, until one evening in the month 
of April, at seven o'clock, a piercing shriek was heard 
from old Righter's room. The woodsmen, who were 
all in the kitchen, having just finished supper, ran 
up the back stairs to the room, and finding the door 
locked, pounded on it vigorously. 

Then a child's voice was heard from below, 
''Here comes Daddy Righter now," and the sound of 
feet could be heard on the front stairs. Some of the 
men rushed downstairs again, and toward the front 
door, while others continued battering down the door 
to the recluse's room. 

Those who came down saw a remarkable sight, 
for with leisurely tread, Righter could be seen com- 
ing down the front stairs, a smile playing over his 
distorted features. The men looked at him aghast. 



40 OLD RIGHTER'S GHOST 

He slowly opened the front door and walked across 
the yard to the front gate, leaving his footprints on 
the soft, muddy path. When the men recovered 
from their fright, they made after him, but he had 
vanished in the semi-darkness. in the meantime 
the door of the bedroom had been broken in, and 
lying on the bed was found the lifeless body of old 
Righter, with an indescribably sweet smile upon his 
distorted face. 



BOONEVILLE CAMP MEETING. 

FOR several days the livery stables of Lock Haven 
had been wearing an air of great activity. Long 
rows of newly washed buggies and surreys stood in 
front of the ^stables, while hostlers ran about groom- 
ing horses, polishing harness and beating lap robes. 

If you asked the half -grown colored boy, leading a 
rawboned caricature of a horse up and down the stable 
alley, the cause of these extraordinary preparations, 
he would reply: "Booneville Camp's a Sunday." 

Although Booneville is fully fifteen miles from 
Lock Haven, nearly every member of the population 
able to hire or borrow a "rig" makes the journey to 
the Camp Grounds, across the dusty mountain roads. 

We entered the "office" of the aforementioned 
livery stable, a rough board partitioned room, the 
walls decorated with framed colored prints of three 
famous horses of the past, Abdallah, George Wilkes 
and the Byerly Turk, and left our order for "a first- 
class team" for Sunday morning. 



42 BOONEVILLE CAMP MEETING 

Camp Meeting Sunday proved typical of the 
month of August. At eight o'clock, when we started, 
not a breeze was coming from the mountains, and 
our ' 'first-class turn-oat" was of the usual description 
— two long, bony, gray nags, smothered in a pro- 
fusion of fly nets, hooked to a low-geared buggy. 

Driving along the broad turnpike leading from 
town to the mountains, we overtook numerous teams 
bound in the same direction. There were surreys 
loaded down with stout families and heavy lunch 
baskets, the horses steaming with perspiration from 
their unnatural loads; young men driving buggies, 
accompanied by the inevitable "young ladies they 
kept company with;" half -drunken country sports 
lashing delivery wagon horses in borrowed carriages, 
and old ladies in phaetons, going to see the great 
preacher from Mifflinburg, each equipage followed 
by an indescribable canine and a cloud of dust. 

We reached the gap in the mountains, where the 
stony road was cut out of the mountain side, below 
which a roaring stream flowed, and began a continual 
ascent for five miles. 



BOONEVILLE CAMP MEETING 43 

Looking back, we could see several turn-outs 
already played out, the men walking, the women 
peering out anxiously, while the perspiring beasts 
tugged up the hills. 

As for the young men with the "young ladies 
they kept company with," they had stopped in the 
shade by the springs gurgling from the mountain 
sides, for they certainly were in no hurry ! 

Here and there we passed a farmhouse or bark 
peeler's shanty, with empty bark wagons by the road- 
side, but all evidences of habitation missing, every- 
one having gone to Camp Meeting. Even the cabin 
of Granny McGill, famed as a witch, was deserted, 
that worthy woman too having joined the band of 
worshippers for the day. 

When the summit was reached, and the rushing 
stream and slashings left behind, we touched up our 
horses and flew through a bit of farming country, 
where the air blew in strong gusts, and sheep grazed 
by the ''stake and rider" fences, and by log farm- 
houses, with barns decorated with bear paws nailed 
to the gables. 



44 BOONEVILLE CAMP MEETING 

Again we enter the hemlock forest, following the 
path of a black creek as far as the Sulphur Springs, 
where before us lay a view of the beautiful Sugar 
Valley, cultivated halfway to the summits of the 
opposite range of hills, from its very center rising the 
three church spires of Loganton, and down the valley 
we could make out the little village of Booneville, 
where the Camp Meeting is held. 

The hot sun shines on the slate roof of the Logan 
House, the only hotel in Loganton, kept by the 
affable Harry Cole, where we stable our horses and 
get lunch before going to the Camp Grounds. 

Already a large crowd of mountaineers, old and 
young, had collected around the hotel to "see the 
rigs come in." There was "Clem" Herlacher, the 
local barber, just back from six months as cowboy in 
Texas, his jet black hair hanging on his shoulders, 
his face hidden by a large sombrero, the center of 
admiration from the country boys. Sam Motter, the 
hunter, stands by his wagon telling the bystanders 
how he killed the young bear which lies on the straw 
in the wagon box. Old John Dice, the witch doctor, 



BOONEVILLE CAMP MEETING 45 

at heart an unbeliever in any form of superstition, is 
recounting miraculous experiences to Tom Miller, 
pseudo-inventor of a scheme for perpetual motion. 
Lewis Geyer, eighty-one years old, once a Forester 
for the King of Prussia, is swapping war stories with 
"Black Headed" Bill Williams, who claims to have 
originated the Bucktail Regiment. On a rocking- 
chair on the hotel porch sits Maud, the barmaid, a 
survival of the ancient custom, who on week days 
dispenses Muncy Valley whiskey and port wine to 
thirsty travellers, but to-day is surrounded by half 
a dozen young blonde giants with heavy shoes laced 
up to their knees, who have come in from a "bark 
job" on Cherry Run. 

The dust on the highways grows thicker as scores 
of mountaineers from distant settlements drive past 
the hotel on their way to the Camp Grounds. 

Every conceivable kind of equipage is repre- 
sented. A big horse harnessed beside a pony, spring 
wagons with wheels that do not match, reins and 
bridles of rope, dilapidated carryalls, farm wagons 
covered with straw and crowded with children, and 



46 BOONEVILLE CAMP MEETING 

most wonderful of all, a one-seated carryall with a 
cradle rocking to and fro in the back, wherein lay a 
sleeping infant, almost hidden by mosquito netting. 

A boy on horseback, the bridle with blinkers and 
checkrein, stops at the hotel and is immediately 
swallowed up by the crowd of loungers. He brings 
news that the livery 'bus from Lock Haven has 
broken down somewhere in the mountains, about 
five miles from Loganton, tumbling men and women 
and precious cases of bottled beer on the roadside. 
But before one can learn what is to be done for the 
unfortunates, Elmer Kastetter, the stable boy, has 
brought out our team from the barn. Our start is 
just in time to encounter two mountain boys racing 
their buggies. Crossing a narrow bridge they came 
together with a crash, spokes, shafts, harness and 
whips flew in every direction, and the fickle crowd 
abandoned speculating on a faraway breakdown, and 
rushed down the road en masse to the scene of this 
fresh disaster. 

Driving through the bed of the stream, we get 
by the pile of scrap iron and kindling wood, and 



BOONEVILLE CAMP MEETING 47 

although blinded and choked by dust and almost 
wrecked by racing teams, we at last drive down the 
steep hill into the Camp Grounds. 

Fully five thousand people are assembled in the 
grove of gigantic hemlocks, either strolling about 
under the trees, eating from copious lunch baskets, or 
listening to the black-bearded preacher from Mifflin- 
burg, whose voice resounds like a sledge and anvil. 

A thousand horses, most of them with their 
heads stuck in feed bags, are tied to trees and fences. 

Elk Creek, a limestone stream, has dried up and 
hundreds of children are playing on its rocky bed. 

Country boys, with wide-brimmed straw hats, 
red neckties and green and yellow barred bicycle 
stockings, arm in arm with red-cheeked, white- 
dressed girls, walk unceasingly up and down the 
avenue in the center of the park. The tintype tent, 
kept by an old gypsy woman, is surrounded by a 
laughing crowd, who guy the boys as they come out 
after having their sweethearts' pictures taken. But 
the calm of the scene is rudely interrupted by a tow- 
haired bicyclist, wearing a red jockey cap, and, of 



48 BOONEVILLE CAMP MEETING 

course, the green, orange -barred stockings, who, in 
riding down the hill to the grounds, coasted off the 
bridge into the dry stream, and crawls up the bank 
cut and bleeding. A few minutes later the eyes of 
thousands are turned to a horse which has broken 
loose, and, dragging a buggy, dashes through the 
grove, ripping off wheels in its way until its wild 
course is brought to an end by running into a tree, 
smashing the buggy to splinters. 

And thus the happy Sunday passes, the day grad- 
ually softening into night with no signs of the vast 
concourse departing homeward. Kerosene torches, 
fastened to the trees, give the woods a weird appear- 
ance, the flickering light shining on the strong, pious 
faces of the worshippers, singing, "I'm on my way 
to Zion, I'm on my journey home." 

Not until a thousand silver watches have noted 
the hour of ten and the giant, black-bearded minister 
has pronounced the benediction, does the homeward 
march begin; the neighing of horses, rattling of 
wagons, and the roar of joyous voices making a 
strange contrast to the stillness of the countryside. 



BOONEVILLE CAMP MEETING 49 

Everyone is talking of the events of the day. 
Everyone is happy. Truly the Sunday at Booneville 
Camp Meeting is to these people what Christmas, 
Easter, Birthday, Fourth of July and Derby Day 
rolled into one, would be to us, so important a place 
does it fill in reckoning the life of the Pennsylvania 
mountaineer. 



FANNY HEDDEN'S HOTEL 

TO anyone finding himself with a spare day on 
his hands, and the ability of getting to Wat- 
sontown, there is no pleasanter way of putting in 
that day than to drive through the beautiful valley 
to McEwansville, Turbotville and Washingtonville. 

It was my privilege to have taken this drive 
one sunshiny April morning, just when the pale 
green leaves and vari-colored blossoms were bud- 
ding forth, and the air was sweet with the odor of 
the grass. Myriads of robins, bluebirds and 
meadow larks were warbling in the brushwoods, 
and the roosters by the roadside gave vent to their 
Spring-rejuvenated crowing. The ducks were 
taking their first swim in the brown, muddy mill 
ponds. 

The broad farming valley stretched out like an 
English landscape, the cultivated fields alternating 
with groves of stately oaks or hickories, and dotted 
here and there were the substantial white farm- 

50 



FANNY HEDDEN'S HOTEL 51 

houses, in whose front yards flourished the tall but 
alien Norway spruces. 

Quiet reigned in the streets of McEwansville, 
with its tall spired gothic churches, and rows of 
little stores, with show windows of small paned 
glass. And likewise in Turbotville were the streets 
deserted, except at the huge white public house, 
where several idlers sat on the porch in the morn- 
ing sun, waiting for some stranger to treat them to 
their favorite drinks. We passed the scene of a 
recent conflagration, where one-third of the peaceful 
old-fashioned street, and the friendly shade trees, 
had been swept away by the uncontrollable flames. 
New frame houses were being erected, but they 
were narrow and shallow, painted yellow and blue, 
in unfavorable contrast to the low-roofed comforta- 
ble dwellings they pretended to replace. 

Once more out in the country we followed the 
winding turnpike, over bridges which rattled as we 
crossed, by ancient cemeteries, with gothic monu- 
ments and decaying cedar trees, and past fields 
sprouting with lawn-like wheat. And when we 



52 FANNY HEDDEN'S HOTEL 

crossed a little stream, whose bed was shaded by 
untrimmed willow trees, we found ourselves in 
another village of the past, Washingtonville. 

The little white houses stood flush upon the 
street, which led up to a hill crowned by several 
good sized churches. In the center of the town 
was "Fanny Hedden's Hotel," built, like the other 
structures, close upon the road, but differing from 
them in having two tiers of balcony-like porches, 
where guests could sit and watch the doings of 
the town and wait for fresh travellers to arrive. 
Before this old-time hostlery we stopped. A half- 
grown stable boy held our horse, while a thickset 
young man ran out and greeted us obsequiously 
with a decided British accent, as you would expect 
to be met with in the taverns we read about in rural 
England. But when the stable boy addressed him as 
Mr. Herzog, I knew it was only a case of the adapta- 
bility of the Pennsylvania Dutchman who had lived 
in foreign lands. 

We were ushered into the low ceilinged office, 
the walls of which I was surprised to find covered 



FANNY HEDDEN'S HOTEL 58 

with old colored prints depicting scenes in American 
sporting and political life as it was sixty years ago. 
And there was one print which was clearly not 
American— "King William at the Battle of the 
Boyne." 

While we registered, a country boy came in and 
tacked up dodgers which announced a "Dance at 
Jerseytown, Friday night, " and I sincerely wished I 
could remain long enough to attend this function. I 
made the country gallant's acquaintance, and he 
showed me a strange medal or button he had found 
the day previous while helping demolish an old 
house. Apparently of silver, the size of a modern 
dollar, the medal had a head of Washington in the 
center, with the motto, "We uphold our President, " 
beneath, and around the edges were the letters, V., 
M., N.Y., C, R.I., N.J., N.H., D., M., V., N.C., S. 
C. , G. , which I interpreted to be the initials of the thir- 
teen original states. There were two small holes in 
the center which inclined me to believe this curious 
relic had been used as a button. "I wouldn't take a 
dollar for it," said the country boy as he went away. 



54 FANNY HEDDEN'S HOTEL 

Dinner was quickly prepared and we ascended the 
narrow stairway to the dining room. At the door we 
were met by a smiling old woman, Fanny Hedden her- 
self, who confesses eighty years, but looks and acts 
thirty years younger. The dining room was a spa- 
cious apartment, the long windows and high ceilings 
being a decided change from the low rooms on the 
ground floor. In a corner was a walnut sideboard of 
antique design, and the walls were decorated by five 
or six engravings of Biblical scenes. The table was 
lavishly set with every conceivable variety of pre- 
serves and relishes, and by our plates were tall cut- 
glass goblets. Mrs. Hedden and her grandson, for 
such the young landlord proved to be, both apolo- 
gized for their inability to provide for us properly, 
which inability we failed to see. While her grandson 
was filling our glasses with sparkling homemade 
wine, which he proudly declared "was made of the 
grapes from the arbor on the back porch," we com- 
mented on the Biblical engravings which were on the 
walls. Mrs. Hedden, noticing that we were interested 
in curiosities, hurried from the room and brought in 



FANNY HEDDEN'S HOTEL 55 

a woven basket of immense dimensions which she 
said was made by her grandmother, and was over a 
hundred and fifty years old. "And it's as good as 
ever," said the old woman, as she poured the con- 
tents of the ice water pitcher into the basket, which 
did not leak a drop. 

After finishing the appetizing repast we were 
conducted to the parlor "to see some more old pic- 
tures," as Mrs. Hedden expressed it. In the parlors 
I noticed a Canadian scene, which led me to suspect 
that it was in that country Mr. Herzog acquired his 
English manner of speaking. But most remarkable 
of all, three life-size portraits of handsome women, 
two blondes and one brunette, in the decollete garb 
of 1860, hung in this room, but Mrs. Hedden could 
give no clew as to the identity of the persons they rep- 
resented, as she had "bought them at a bargain from 
a retired boarding house keeper in Philadelphia, Cen- 
tennial year." As the classic faces of these long-for- 
gotten charmers smiled from their tarnished frames, 
I wondered where the originals could be, whether 
living or dead, after the long lapse of years ! 



56 FANNY HEDDEN'S HOTEL 

After inspecting the various bedrooms, in one of 
which we found engravings of nymphs and shepherd- 
esses evidently dating back to the eighteenth cen- 
tury, and expressing our satisfaction at the courteous 
treatment accorded us, we ordered our horse and 
buggy, and after paying our bill sped away toward 
the deer park of Congressman Billmeyer, which is 
not a mile distant from Fanny Hedden's Hotel. 



SUNRISE AT NORTH BEND 

FAR out on the summits of the mountains back of 
North Bend is a colony of Swedenborgians, 
who have come from the crowded cities to indulge in 
their mystic faith and build up an agricultural com- 
munity. They have cleared off the pine forests, 
built comfortable homes and roomy barns, and pro- 
duced a flowering oasis in this abandoned wilderness. 
Whether their farming venture will prove an ultimate 
success in this inaccessible spot remains to be seen, 
but one thing is certain, they have selected the 
grandest site in the state for the location of their 
settlement. High above the other mountains, com- 
manding a superb view of the surrounding country, 
and in an atmosphere that is always dry and cool, 
even in midsummer, they are to be envied by their 
less fortunate neighbors in the river valleys. But the 
attraction of which they are most proud, and justly 
so, is the marvelous sunrise to which all strangers 
with a love for the wonders of nature are treated. 



58 SUNRISE AT NORTH BEND 

One evening, several Summers ago, I climbed 
the steep mountains to the settlement, and spent the 
night at one of the hospitable Swedenborgian home- 
steads. Before daybreak I was wakened and given 
an opportunity to view this grand and unparalleled 
sight. From our mountain I looked off in every 
direction and beheld a remarkable phenomenon of 
the mountain peaks breaking through the white 
clouds, like islands in some trackless sea ! And then 
in the east the faint line of the rising sun grew 
wider, and redder, and more effulgent every minute, 
lighting the entire sky with its blaze of fiery glory. 
The clouds receded from the mountain peaks, opening 
a wider and wider panorama in their furrowed rows 
of darkest green. And from purple to red, and from 
red to orange and yellow, the sun overspread until 
the restless shadows on the road before me betokened 
the glorious birth of a new day! 



CORNPLANTER'S RING 

WHILE inspecting the wonderful collection of 
Indian and other relics in the possession of 
Dr. Gurnard of Muncy, I was shown a curious ring 
made by Chief Cornplanter on the occasion of his 
last visit to the Muncy Valley. For a long while after 
his relegation to a New York State Reservation the 
famous Indian was in the habit of paying a yearly 
visit to the Muncy Valley, where he was well treated 
by the descendents of the first settlers. Among 
these were the Stover family, who did everything in 
their power to make his sojourns comfortable. 

In 1835, Cornplanter, being over ninety years of 
age and growing feeble, felt that he would probably 
never be able to repeat his annual pilgrimage, and 
wished to remember the people who had entertained 
him so hospitably. The day before he started for 
the Reservation he asked Mr. Stover for two new 
twenty-five cent pieces, which were fortunately pro- 
vided. From one he cut out the center, forming a 

59 



60 CORNPLANTER'S RING 

ring, on which he soldered the other quarter, so as 
to show the face and date, "1835." 

The aged chief's prediction proved true, for he 
died before the year was out. The ring has since 
passed through various hands, but in the appre- 
ciative ownership of Dr. Gurnard it remains as an 
interesting proof of the date of Cornplanter's last 
visit to the scenes of his youth. 



THE HAUNTED TAVERN 

AT the approach of evening a heavy fog arose, 
making the navigation of the timber rafts a 
difficulty in the "big river." The mountainot^ 
shores were completely veiled from sight, as were 
even the lights in the cottage windows of Liverpool. 
Big rain drops pattered, waves washed over the 
rafts, and the logs creaked and slapped in the uncer- 
tain current. 

The steersmen lit their watch -lights and called 
aloud their warnings to prevent collisions, and vainly 
looked about for places of refuge until morning. 

On a raft of spars, bound for Marietta, were two 
brothers, Jacob and Richie Vail, who, although they 
had been rivermen all their lives, were a trifle appre- 
hensive on this occasion. The current and fog had 
forced them close to shore, and as they beat around 
for a comfortable eddy, they noticed a big building 
loom out through the darkness on a neck of land 
which ran out into the river. To this they steered, 

61 



62 THE HAUNTED TAVERN 

made fast, and abandoned the raft for the night. No 
lights shone in the barred windows of this house, but 
nevertheless the brothers knocked at the door. To 
their surprise it was instantly opened by a young 
woman who, as she stood there shading the candle 
with her hand, produced an impression on them which 
they never forgot. Of medium height, with straight, 
black hair and pallid face, she had one pale blue eye 
while the other was brown. Her countenance was 
withal peculiarly attractive. When she heard their 
predicament, she invited them in, explaining her 
house was a raftsman's tavern. 

Richie, who was somewhat of "a ladies' man," 
inquired if she had a male companion in the enter- 
prise, to which the young woman replied she had 
been alone since her husband died two years since. 

After supper, Jacob, feeling very tired, asked to 
be shown to his room, while Richie declared he would 
like to "keep company" with the young widow by 
the fireside. 

The room in which Jacob was domiciled for the 
night was of large size, and the one chair, washstand. 



THE HAUNTED TAVERN 63 

and long-legged bed seemed diminutive in compari- 
son. There was no loft above, and the square-hewn 
rafters and arched roof, through which the rain 
leaked, was like the haymow of a bam rather than 
a bedroom. 

The woman handed him her candle, said good- 
night, and as he undressed, he could hear the buzz 
of her conversation with Richie. He blew out the 
candle and climbed into the long-legged bed, and 
covered himself with two or three patchwork quilts, 
in preparation for the much needed sleep. But in 
less than five minutes he was rudely disturbed. First 
one quilt, then the second, then the third was pulled 
from him by unseen hands, and thrown in a heap in 
the furthermost corner of the room. He looked up, 
thinking it some joke of Richie's, but could see no 
one. He jumped from the bed, got the comforters 
and recovered himself, only to have them seized 
again. A third time he regained his coverings, and 
held on to them with his stoutest grip, but was 
powerless to prevent their removal. He ran over to 
the washstand and groped about for matches to light 



04 THE HAUNTED TAVERN 

his candle, but there were none to be found. As he 
started for the door to call for help unseen hands 
hurled him across the room, where he struck the 
wall with a terrific thud. The more he struggled, 
the more he was forced against che wall, as if held 
there by a hurricane. His clothes were thrown from 
the chair and lay in disorder on the floor, and in his 
helplessness his watch was lifted from under the 
pillow and he could hear the crystal shatter as it 
smashed against the rafters. His cries for help 
brought Richie and the woman to the door, but they 
were unable to open it, although there was no key in 
the lock. They hammered and banged on the door, 
while poor Jacob was held tight by his invisible tor- 
menter. Suddenly the door flew open, Richie and 
his companion were hurled upon the floor, Jacob fell 
in a limp mass, and the comforters whisked across 
the room and readjusted themselves upon the bed. 
Richie's lantern was extinguished in the excitement, 
but all hands found their way to the stairs and fled 
from the bewitched apartment. Once downstairs, 
the woman tried her utmost to coax the raftsmen to 



THE HAUNTED TAVERN 65 

remain, promising them better quarters, but they 
cursed the tavern and its devilish occupants, and in 
the uncertain haze of dawn hurried to the water's 
edge and loosened the raft from its moorings. 

At their next stop they met a gang of raftsmen 
who laughed when informed of the awful night's ex- 
perience. "Why, that's the 'hanted' tavern," they 
exclaimed, "that woman's husband, two raftsmen 
and an Irishman were murdered in that room at a 
dance two years ago, and from that time there's been 
some hellish happenings in that big room under the 
roof, and it's pretty certain that one night is all 
you'll want to spend in it." 

The unsavory reputation of the log tavern spread 
to the entire rafting fraternity, and the odd -eyed 
young woman was forced to abandon the premises 
for lack of custom. For a number of years the 
structure was unoccupied, and latterly was used for 
a cow stable, until the '89 flood carried it away. 



THE STORY OF ALTAR ROCK 

IN the first quarter of the Eighteenth Century 
several bands of French trappers found their 
way from the trading posts on Lake Erie to the 
Driftwood branch of the Sinnemahoning. They fol- 
lowed this stream to the main run, where some of 
them went out the Clearfield branch toward Benezet, 
while another party of five built a camp and stockade 
on a high point at the great bend west of what is now 
Round Island Station. The camp, which was chris- 
tened Grande Pointe, and even the subsequent history 
of these French pioneers has faded into oblivion, 
although to this day the foundations can be located 
in the pine forest which has since grown up on the 
scene of this ancient fortification. 

The French policy with the Indians was to fra- 
ternize and to be honorable in all dealings with 
them, and for this reason their trading and trapping 
enterprises were eminently successful. 

However, some few of the young bucks resented 

t>6 



THE STORY OF ALTAR ROCK 67 

the intrusion of the whites, especially after the 
building of the Grande Pointe camp, which seemed 
to insure their permanent residence in the locality. 
But the squaws and less warlike of the braves, who 
bartered furs for hitherto undreamed of fineries and 
satisfying stimulants, were glad of their presence in 
the neighborhood. 

Of all the hostile braves, none cherished a more 
bitter and uncompromising hate than did the tall, 
spare, young soothsayer, whose name translated is 
equivalent to Two Pines. 

He was a medicine man by descent, and in his 
frequent visions he saw nothing but frightful omens 
of his people's annihilation at the hands of the pale- 
faced strangers. Still, the greed for bargain and 
luxury was too strong in the majority of the tribe to 
give but a passing thought to predictions that at 
another time would have been instantly heeded. 
They turned away, shaking their heads, when on 
festal days he mounted the Altar Rock for devotions, 
where sacrifices were offered, and commune with 
the spirits held, and on whose narrow ledge an Indian 



68 THE STORY OF ALTAR ROCK 

was supposed to possess a charmed life and be for 
the time invulnerable to poisoned arrows or javelins. 

Altar Rock, which modern writers call Pulpit 
Rock, High Rock, Steeple Rock and Nelson's Rock, 
is one of the most remarkable natural wonders in the 
State of Pennsylvania. Its diameter in no part being 
over ten feet, it rises like a graceful column to the 
height of sixty feet, where it is surmounted by a 
flat slab whose dimensions are approximately twelve 
by ten feet. The entire cliff is composed of brown- 
stone, and is undulated and fluted by the action of 
water in past ages. On the top of the flat slab stands 
a living white pine, forty feet tall, whose gnarled 
roots clutch at the rocks in a grim effort to hold its 
place against the onslaught of the elements. 

There is no earth on Altar Rock from which the 
tree can gain sustenance, but it grows healthy and 
green in its barren home. Until five years ago there 
was a second white pine, the exact counterpart of its 
mate, growing on the rock, but it was struck by light- 
ning, lifted bodily from the roots and hurled into 
the valley below. 



THE STORY OF ALTAR ROCK 69 

It was one bright September morning, after Two 
Pines, the soothsayer, had spent the night on the top 
of Altar Rock in meditation and prayer, that he 
heard the crack of a gun fired somewhere near the 
Sinnemahoning. A few minutes later he came face 
to face with a Frenchman, Pierre Le Brun, dragging 
the carcass of a bull elk to the river's edge, to sink 
it until he might have time to prepare it for eating. 
Two Pines' anger was thoroughly aroused. To see 
this intruder killing the beasts of the forest, which 
belonged, in his idea, to the Indian race, was too much 
for him, and he struck the Frenchman a terrific blow 
on the head with his stone mallet, crushing his skull 
and causing instant death. Then he reclimbed to his 
retreat on the Altar Rock, and prayed rapturously 
for the gift of strength to annihilate the white beings 
who defiled the valley of the Sinnemahoning. 

It was in this attitude of prayer that he heard 
footsteps and whispering voices in the woods beneath. 
Nearer and nearer they came, until through the 
leaves he beheld, to his satisfaction, the forms of four 
French trappers, heavily armed. Two Pines arose 



70 THE STORY OF ALTAR ROCK 

and stood erect, in the dignity of his Titan stature, 
and with arms folded across his breast, seemed to 
defy the avengers to slay him on his immortal 
pedestal, where poisoned arrows and javelins had 
less effect then drops of Summer rain. 

A little Frenchman, named Lafitte, leaned his 
heavy gun upon a snag, took careful aim and fired 
at the defiant warrior. There was a loud report, 
and when the foul-smelling smoke had cleared, the 
dead body of Two Pines lay upon the Altar Rock. 

An hour later the Frenchmen abandoned Grande 
Pointe with its valuable stores, and started down 
stream in canoes. That night the camp was looted 
and burned by the Indians, and whether the trappers 
succeeded in reaching a friendly refuge or were 
murdered on the way has never yet been ascertained. 
But from the flat top of Altar Rock two little pines 
sprouted slender and straight, with long silky needles. 
Taller and taller they grew, until, side by side, with 
their smooth barked trunks and shapely tangle of 
dark green foliage, they resembled the figure of an 
Indian youth, the slain but defiant Two Pines. 



THE TRAGEDY OF HIGH ROCKS 

WHERE the McElhattan and Spring Runs come 
together in a turbulent medley of bubbling 
ripples, and birches and quaking asps thrive, where 
the forests of evergreens once prevailed, there rises 
a perpendicular cliff of yellow, uneven stone to the 
altitude of eight hundred feet. The sides are so steep 
that the few stunted trees stand out horizontally. 
On the top of the forbidding bluff, which is dubbed by 
the mountaineers the High Rocks, a grove of pitch 
pines flourishes, which in days gone by sheltered 
the Indian councils held on this natural fortress. 
Here it was that the powerful chief, Ho-non-waw, 
would sit on every clear morning, smoking his twisted 
pipe, and dream of perpetual victories. And here 
also the Indian signal fires blazed forth when the 
relentless race war was raging between white man 
and red. 

In the peaceful lowlands, a couple of miles 
from the High Rocks, Israel Snyder, a young pio- 

71 



72 THE TRAGEDY OF HIGH ROCKS 

neer, had built a cabin and cleared a few acres of 
the dark, rich soil. With his wife and three small 
children he was perfectly content, and refused to be 
drawn into the disputes between the settlers and the 
Aborigines. Frequently the Indians came to his 
cabin door to have their knives sharpened or to buy 
small lots of ammunition, and he seemed to be living 
among them on terms of honest peace. In the last 
months of Summer young Snyder would be gone 
from home a day at a time on hunting expeditions, 
as he wished to lay in a stock of dried venison for 
the Winter. He always left a loaded gun with his 
wife in case of unexpected attack, but there really 
appeared to be no use for such precautions. 

But one night, when he returned from a suc- 
cessful chase, he perceived that the door was wide 
open and no fire threw out its glow from the hearth. 
Inside the door lay the body of his wife, shot through 
the head (with perhaps the very ammunition he had 
sold the redskins) and scalped. The children were 
gone, carried off by the cruel savages. The heart- 
broken pioneer, in the presence of God and the stars. 



THE TRAGEDY OF HIGH ROCKS 73 

vowed he would avenge the devastation of his home, 
and from a peaceful builder of a homestead he 
became a merciless enemy of the Indians, joining the 
Brady brothers in many skirmishes of the most des- 
perate kind. Six months after the death of his wife 
he had killed eleven Indians, including Sa-lon-ka, son 
of Chief Ho-non-waw, and his ambition would have 
no rest until he had slaughtered the great chief 
himself. From a distance he had seen Ho-non-waw 
smoking on the High Rocks, but to approach him 
was no easy matter, as Indian pickets swarmed about 
the approaches to the mountain. 

He knew that if he shot at one of these scouts 
whom he might meet on his way to the chief's re- 
treat, it would bring the others to him, so he decided 
to make the climb unarmed, save for a hunting knife. 
Stealthily he passed several sentries unnoticed, and 
onward and upward he crawled on the far side of the 
rocks, until daylight found him on the level bench, 
where he lay in a thicket of hogberries until the 
dignified chief strode to his favorite ledge and sat 
down to smoke his twisted pipe. The time had come ! 



74 THE TRAGEDY OF HIGH ROCKS 

Springing from his concealment, Snyder rushed up 
behind his foe and gave him a mighty shove. There 
was crunching of gravel, a tearing of garments, and 
as Ho-non-waw fell from the cliff, with diabolical 
presence of mind he seized the leg of the pioneer, and 
together they went down, down, eight hundred feet, 
tumbling over each other, and lit with a crash in the 
topmost branches of a chestnut tree. The Indians 
soon discovered their loss, and reverently removed 
the chieftain's body and gave it burial. But as for 
Israel Snyder, his bones were left to bleach and 
crumble in the chestnut tree. 



THE LAST ELK 

THE recent stocking of the Ozchinachson deer park 
with elk recalls the fact that until a little more 
than thirty years ago these noble animals ranged in 
a wild state in Pennsylvania. Long after they had 
become but vague memories in the other eastern 
states, they resisted extirmination in their final 
stronghold. 

The honor, as sportsmen would regard it, of 
having killed the last elk in Pennsylvania has, after 
so many years, not yet been awarded, as claimants 
for this distinction appear about every other year ; 
and if these claims proved true it would bring the 
death of the last elk down to a comparatively recent 
period. In some quarters, the venerable hunter, Seth 
Nelson, who was bom the same year as Gladstone 
and Lincoln, in 1809, and from last reports is hale 
and hearty, is said to have shot an elk in Cameron 
County in the Fall of 1867. But another famous 
hunter and highly esteemed gentleman, the late 

75 



76 THE LAST ELK 

James David, is known to have killed one of these 
animals in 1870. Between these two dates several 
other claimants have appeared, but an unprejudiced 
judge of the situation must discard their statements 
as not proven. 

Early in the Spring of 1872 some fishermen on 
Wyckoff's Run found the bones of three cow elks. 
Judging from the teeth they were very old, and had 
evidently died from hunger and exposure. 

In 1880, one Moses Reed, a professional hunter 
from Clearfield County, confided to his friends that 
he had killed an elk at the head of Mix Run, and even 
showed a set of antlers as evidence. But an express 
agent exploded his story by relating how the imagi- 
native hunter had recently received a fine set of elk- 
horns from someone in Colorado, who afterward 
turned out to be Reed's nephew. 

In this connection it is interesting to learn that 
as recently as 1900 ex-County Surveyor, Flavins J. 
David, of Lock Haven, a son of the late James David, 
found a large elk-horn lying in the woods in Potter 
County. It had been badly scorched by forest fires 



THE LAST ELK 77 

and had evidently lain there a long while, but it 
vividly brought back the time when they were mon- 
archs of our forests. And it is also worth the know- 
ing that although the elk is admittedly extinct in 
Pennsylvania, the game laws "permit the hunting of 
elk and deer from November first to December first, " 
perhaps in the hope that some day they will return 
to their native heath! As for the deer, they are 
plentiful enough, their smaller size and agility hav- 
ing given them opportunities for escape while the 
cumbersome elk were not so gifted. 

I have seen the elk in the several preserves in 
the state where they are now kept, but they are 
practically domesticated and more like contented 
cattle than game animals. They are fond of sun 
baths, and when on their feet stand by the feed 
boxes with eyes blinking and half closed. 

In the Adirondack mountains of New York 
there are at least a dozen parks stocked with elk, and 
in New England several preserves are well filled with 
them. In the Adirondacks the principal interest of 
sportsmen is to restock the forests with moose, which 



78 THE LAST ELK 

once came from Canada in considerable numbers. 
And while this is being argued pro and con, it is a 
wonder that no one has suggested the restocking of 
the woods of Pennsylvania with elk, for I really 
believe that there is a better chance for elk to live 
and breed in these highlands than for moose to thrive 
in New York State, where a day's travel brings one 
in contact with numerous wired enclosures, Summer 
hotels and cottages, so uncongenial to the lover of 
the untrammeled wilds. 

But if we did restock our mountains with the 
lordly elk, it would be but for a short time, as the 
railroads, tramways and mines, which are constantly 
opening in every wooded gorge, have sealed the fate 
of Pennsylvania as a sportsman's paradise, and in 
the future it will be to the game preserve, and not 
to the trackless forest, where we must look for what 
will be at best a poor imitation of * 'sport." 



THE GHOST WALK 

IN a dilapidated log" farmhouse in the White Deer 
Valley resides an aged hermit, whose Scotch- 
Irish name I shall slightly alter, as he is still living, 
and call him Silas McKean. Fifty-five years ago he 
was the dashing son of one of the most prosperous 
farmers of the valley, but now, alone and friendless, 
he ekes out an existence from his deteriorated farm 
land. 

A kindly old man is Silas McKean, but his mind, 
long focused on a single thought, has made him 
an uninteresting companion to the neighboring agri- 
culturists who find him an unresponsive listener to 
their stories of crops, and horses, and guns and 
politics. But to a stranger, who will enter into the 
spirit of the old man, and assent, not differ from his 
metaphysical imaginings, he is a strange combination 
of scientific knowledge and illogical stubbornness. 
With his parents he had moved to his present abode 
during the year 1846, when the hilly sides of the 

79 



80 THE GHOST WALK 

valley were in timber, and had helped his father and 
brothers clear a good-sized farm and erect a substan- 
tial farmhouse and barns. He was then a stalwart, 
red -cheeked boy, fond of taking the country girls "to 
meeting," and the best horseman for miles around. 

Back of the red bank-barn, which he aided to 
build, stood two gigantic white pines, which had 
been left to shade the watering trough until two 
young maples they had planted reached sufficient 
size, for it is a peculiar fact that the Pennsylvania 
farmer has a prejudice against the native pines, but 
will preserve the most miserable maple or pin oak 
for shade or ornament. 

One night the McKean's sheep did not come in 
from the mountain and Silas mounted his buckskin 
stallion and went in search of them. Far off among 
the hills he found them, and it was past eleven 
o'clock when he finally had them safely corralled in 
the sheepyard. He had put his horse away and 
was going to the house when he noticed a peculiar 
ball of white light dancing in mid-air between the 
two old pines. He stopped to watch the phenom- 



THE GHOST WALK 81 

enon, which gradually elongated until it assumed 
the form of a young girl of supernatural beauty. 
The spectre remained motionless and seemed to 
catch the eye of Silas, who remained transfixed to 
the spot. Then it slowly walked to one tree, touched 
it with one hand, then to the other tree and repeated 
the performance, and in a moment more resumed 
the shape of a ball of white light — and disappeared ! 

Silas was amazed by what he had seen, but 
kept it a secret from the family. The next night 
at the same hour he crept from the house to the 
watering trough, when the apparition appeared and 
vanished exactly as the night before. 

Night after night Silas watched the spot,' fasci- 
nated by the beauty and mystery of the phantom, 
until his father demanded the cause of his unseemly 
conduct. After several stormy scenes he confessed, 
much to the indignation of his orthodox parent, who 
refused to believe the story unless he should see it 
with his own eyes. He accompanied his son to the 
ghost walk, but next morning he could not be 
induced to say whether or not he had seen anything 



82 THE GHOST WALK 

remarkable. But one thing was certain ; after break- 
fast, despite his son's entreaties, he chopped down 
both the grand old pines and ordered them cut 
into kindling wood. To Silas this was an act of 
desecration, and he shed tears as he dragged the 
shaggy boughs to the brush heap. 

When night came he resumed his watch by the 
stumps, from which the red pitch was oozing like 
blood. But alas ! no phantom appeared. The hours 
passed wearily, morning came, but everything was 
matter-of-fact. On each successive night he was in 
his usual place, but not a ray of hope was in store. 

Before a year had elapsed he began to act 
queerly. He neglected his work, muttered to him- 
self ; and thought only of the night, when he could 
sit on the dug-out water trough waiting for his 
ghostly love. 

Years went by ; his parents died, his brothers 
and sisters moved west, but he remained. His old 
friends regarded him as crazy and young people 
coming home from church at night feared to pass 
him, sitting motionless by the rotting pine stumps. 



THE GHOST WALK 



83 



But loss of friends and reputation could not 
shake his faith, and to the present time he waits 
and hopes for the return of his spectre sweetheart. 




CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Legend of Penn's Cave 9 

Ole Bull's Castle 15 

The Bald Eagle Silver Mine 19 

Granny Myers' Curse 24 

Witchcraft vs. Mother-in-law 29 

Killing a Panther 32 

Old Righter's Ghost 36 

Booneville Camp Meeting 41 

Fanny Hedden's Hotel 50 

Sunrise at North Bend 57 

Cornplanter's Ring 59 ^ 

The Haunted Tavern 61 

The Story of Altar Rock 66 

The Tragedy of High Rocks 71 

The Last Elk ^5 

The Ghost Walk "^9 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Entrance to Penn's Cave facing title page 

Altar Rock facing page 69 



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